Rose was already making notes on a sheet of paper. ‘Le mot juste, le mot juste,’ she intoned over and over.
‘The right word,’ Andy mumbled.
‘Pardon?’ said Rose.
‘It’s French. Means “the right word”,’ he explained.
‘So . . . something to do with France, maybe?’
There were grins all round.
‘Let’s sail!’ said Andy.
At exactly eleven o’clock, the train pulled out of Corlington Station, the stationmaster, Mister Pertwee, stood on the platform. Waving his green flag and blowing his whistle, he ushered it on its journey.
Ralph, Fred, and Hendrix looked out of their window as the train jerked into motion. At Mister Pertwee’s feet, Ginger the tomcat made spitting noises at the departing train.
‘Come away, you stupid moggy,’ said Ralph to Hendrix.
The cat reluctantly sidled to the far end of the table between Ralph and Fred. Ralph could have sworn he caught a glimpse of pink feline tongue just before the cat retreated from the window.
He shook his head and smiled.
‘What?’ Hendrix asked. The cat had a look of innocence personified – or maybe cat-ified?
‘Oh, nothing,’ Ralph sighed. He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes that were not really there, and feigned sleep. The sound of the train over the tracks had a hypnotic effect on him as it did with many train passengers.
Fred wanted to push Ralph for an explanation. Back at the church gardens, he had looked worried. Looking across at him now he merely seemed exhausted, if that was possible for a dead-not-really person.
Once the train had passed beyond the outskirts of Corlington, Ralph opened his eyes and spoke to Fred.
‘As I mentioned before we left, I am, was or whatever my status is now, CEO of ISAW. My real name is Gordon Hartley.’
‘Gordon Hartley? Why does that name ring a bell? And why would someone like you need to hide?’ Fred asked. Then a thought crossed his mind. ‘This has something to do with that blasted computer game, Treasure Hunt, that has this whole perishing country going crazy over, hasn’t it?’
Ralph smiled back across the table at Fred. The innocence of the unsophisticated, he thought.
‘I’m afraid so, yes,’ Ralph acknowledged.
‘Of course!’ said Fred as the realisation of what this implied dawned on him. ‘I bought one of the discs for Michael for his last birthday. The hunt for . . .’ He paused, ‘What’s the bloke’s name again? Rembrandt or something.’
‘Remback,’ Ralph corrected.
‘Remback, yes. Teddy Remback, the mystery man. That’s the fella.’ Fred seemed quite pleased with himself for remembering a name that was already on the lips and minds of millions.
‘The last and final disc is to be released within a week. My company hasn’t received an advance copy of the disc yet, but I have a feeling that if Teddy Remback doesn’t reveal himself by the time it is released then the general public is likely to tear ISAW down brick by brick until someone owns up to being him. And for some reason, my gut tells me that the eventual object of Treasure Hunt will have something to do with his identity.’
Fred frowned. He was slowly but surely putting together all the pieces of the puzzle in his mind.
‘So . . .’ He started cautiously, ‘You are the mysterious gentleman in question then?’
‘Ha!’ Ralph laughed mirthlessly. ‘Would that that was true, Fred. No, I’m afraid not, but there are a lot of people who do think so.’
‘Well if you are not this Teddy Remback then who . . .’
‘I don’t know. And that is the problem. He contacted me via email telling me when the final disc would be released. And there was something on that email that . . .’ he paused.
‘That what?’ said Fred.
‘Let’s just say I believe he lives around here. Possibly in Corlington.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Fred was flabbergasted.
‘No, I’m not. Anyway, I decided to go into hiding. My company headquarters was being besieged. There were rumours flying around that legal action might be taken against us, as there were some who believed that this whole thing was a hoax and someone was getting very rich. I left an email for the Times stating once again that neither I nor anyone at ISAW was Remback. I changed my identity and found a place to rent in Wiggleswood.
A while later, Remback contacted me again saying he wanted to meet. I got the distinct feeling from the tone of the message that he was frightened. Or at least concerned with all the publicity surrounding his identity. Which seems very odd.
‘Anyway, this is why I believe my house was broken into. Someone has figured out that Ralph Fenwick is really Gordon Hartley.’
‘And . . .?’ Fred prompted.
‘And whoever broke in . . .’ Ralph shrugged. ‘Let’s see what happens over the next couple of days. In the meantime it’s best that we . . . you . . . stay away from Wiggleswood.’
‘But what about my funeral?’ Fred asked.
‘Oh, you’ll be there. I’m just not sure we’ll be able to make it,’ said Ralph.
14: Talking Cats and Loony Landowners
Bill Williams carefully went through each item of evidence from the break-in at Ralph Fenwick’s house. For once, Constable Finch had done a surprisingly good job.
The fingerprints had already been sent through to Scotland Yard for analysis but he somehow knew that the burglar’s prints would not be amongst those lifted from the crime scene. As far as the fingerprints went, he was following procedure. The answers he was looking for were amongst the other evidence Finch had gathered. It would help if he knew what the questions were.
He pulled out the typed sheet, running his finger down the list of CDs and DVDs; occasionally pausing at a title he recognised. When he finished, he absently moved the sheet back and forth across the desk as though playing with an Ouija Board.
No messages came to him from the other side. At that moment it was a complete blank, but he felt convinced Fenwick would have the answers. Fenwick . . . and maybe the person whose name was written on the piece of paper Bill had found on Fred’s bedside table.
*
Reverend Steven Wilkins was intrigued by Bill Williams’ enquiry concerning spirits. Most intrigued indeed. The burly sergeant had offered no more details since and Wilkins had not pressed. All in good time, he thought.
Wilkins never regarded Bill as a spiritual man, not in the religious sense, which was why he assumed there was an ulterior motive behind the enquiry.
During the years he had known the ex-Scotland Yard policeman, Christmas and the occasional funerals or christenings had been the only times he ever known Bill to attend church. So he doubted very much that the man was on the verge of ‘getting religion’. Reverend Wilkins therefore went about the task of research in a more pragmatic fashion.
Even though his personal library was quite extensive, trying to come up with any factual evidence concerning spirits and their nature would, somewhat inevitably, lead to material about faith, or possession. Wilkins felt confident in assuming that this was not what Bill Williams was after. Furthermore, he discounted anything about poltergeists.
Quite by accident, as he was replacing all the books, an old copy of National Geographic had fallen from one of the upper shelves of the bookcase. He picked it up. On the cover was a picture of the actor, Steve Martin.
The magazine’s lead article was entitled ‘Investigations into the paranormal.’
The reason for Steve Martin’s picture being on the cover was because the article also looked at the film industry’s involvement with the subject. Pictures of famous actors help sell magazines. Supposedly.
The film All of me was included.
Coincidentally, the heading next to the section about Hollywood was a single-page article about ‘Transference’.
After pouring himself a whiskey, Reverend Wilkins returned to his easy chair by the fire, magazine in hand. He said a brief prayer of t
hanks to Mr and Mrs Lawley (the Glenfiddich donors) and began to read.
*
Bill parked the Jeep in its allotted space behind the police station and walked back up the short tarred driveway to the station entrance.
An elderly gentleman, dressed in an old RAF greatcoat, was sitting on the front steps holding a placard and looking sorry for himself.
‘Morning, Albert, what’s all this then?’ Bill asked.
Albert Gilling was Wiggleswood’s only homeless person. The old man was not really homeless; he just claimed he was. A victim of circumstance was the term he used. In fact, Albert was the wealthiest person in Wiggleswood. But somewhere along the line it seemed as if a few carriages had become derailed, and this was when he had begun a life of sort-of living on the streets.
Albert’s family owned large tracts of farmland, and had numerous other business interests at home and abroad. They also bred racehorses, ran a world-renowned stud-farm and were the ones responsible for resurrecting the Corlington-to-London train line, including rebuilding the station and the steam locomotive that ran on its narrow gauge track, all of which was now part of the National Trust.
Albert’s problems began several years ago after his family claimed he had had a nervous breakdown.
Albert insisted there was nothing wrong with his mind. He said that the ability to see ghosts was perfectly normal. It was every one else that was crazy.
Albert went for treatment in London but managed to avoid being committed by behaving ‘normally’ for six months. Bill suspected he had behaved himself just enough to avoid staying out of a mental institution. He felt sure there was more to Albert Gilling than met the eye. So did Albert.
Eventually, he evicted himself from the large family home, claiming the ghost of Lord Alfred Tennyson was harassing him for some inexplicable reason.
His family relooked at the possibility of having him committed. Seeing as Albert’s family were fairly well known, the villagers feared such an act would immediately attract the attention of the media. The last thing they wanted was headlines in the newspapers about the ‘Loony Landowner from Wiggleswood’.
So a small flat was organised for him at the back of the police station, and after a month Albert claimed he had stopped seeing ghosts.
As a gesture of gratitude for ‘Putting me up,’ Albert did voluntary police work.
‘I’ll keep an eye open f ‘villains. Don’t want paying.’
Bill Williams acknowledged the elderly gentleman with a salute and a cup of tea most mornings upon his arrival at the station.
When Albert wasn’t doing his police work, his part-time job was road-sweeping.
‘Cleanliness is next to wotsisname,’ Albert announced the day he decided to take on this supplementary role.
Bill had bumped into him on his first morning as he was leaving the newsagent.
Albert had just turned into the high street, pushing a yellow handcart laden with an assortment of brooms and shovels and a long-handled leaf rake.
One of the first things Bill had noticed were the letters C.T.C painted on the side of the cart. Oh, dear, he thought. Now what?
‘Hello, Albert. CTC? That’s Corlington Town Council if I’m not mistaken?’
‘It ain’t nicked, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Albert grumpily volunteered.
‘Nicked?’
‘Yeah. Nicked: as in filched, stolen or purloined. I’ve got friends, you know?’
‘I’m sure you have, Albert. It’s nice to have friends.’ It was clearly best not to wind Albert up. ‘You mind how you go, all right?’
His family were over the embarrassment of having a semi-homeless person in their ranks and, fortunately, the problem had not attracted any attention from the newspapers.
Now, in response to Bill’s greeting, Albert retorted, ‘That’s Mister Gilling to you, Detective Sergeant, and don’t you forget it.’
Bill raised an eyebrow. He was used to Albert being cantankerous every now and then, but not downright rude.
‘I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go away,’ Bill told him.
‘I ain’t going nowhere, Bill Williams. You can count on that. I told ‘em, I did,’ he shouted at Bill’s retreating back.
‘Morning, Sharon; kettle on? Albert’s outside. He’s having a turn again, by the looks of it.’
‘Morning, sarge,’ PC Griffith replied. ‘He’s been outside for the past half an hour marching up and down waving that stupid placard. I was seriously thinking of arresting him for his own good. Been making a heck of a row he has. His family will be down soon if he doesn’t behave himself. It’s just boiled, sarge.’
‘Good, I’ll see if I can sort him out then. Finch in?’
Bill stepped behind the front desk. The kettle sat on a small wooden table along with a variety of mugs, a teapot and associated paraphernalia considered essential to the smooth running of police-forces everywhere. Bill made a pot of tea.
‘Reckons he’s quitting, so he says,’ Griffith informed him. ‘He’s in your office.’
He was a bit taken aback by this piece of news, considering that Finch believed himself a ‘born copper’.
‘What brought this on then? Did he finally accept that Clint Eastwood wasn’t a real copper after all?’ Bill asked, jokingly.
‘Not Ben, sarge; Albert. Says road-sweeping‘s too dangerous. Didn’t you read his sign?’ PC Griffith asked.
Bill sighed. Here we go again, he thought as he walked past the desk with two mugs of tea. Time to solve the mystery of the disgruntled not-really-homeless-street-sweeper. ‘Don’t complain, Bill Williams,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘You gave up chasing pushers, pimps and other assorted nasties for this, remember?’
‘Sorry, sarge?’ Griffith asked.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, constable,’ said Bill with a small smile.
Bill made a point of reading Albert’s sign. It was lying face up on the steps. ‘Grime don’t Pay, Whoa is the day,’ the slogan announced. Bill read it again and noticed the spelling mistake. Then he considered the family’s association with racehorses, and wondered. He also noticed that Albert was wearing a black armband. Fred’s death had touched everyone in the village. Bill sighed as he sat down next to the elderly gentleman.
‘Right, Albert. Let’s have it then, shall we?’ said Bill as he handed him his mug of tea.
‘I quit. That’s what. And don’t think you can get me t’ change my mind either. They didn’t believe me up at the house, and I told ‘em. Well it’s happening again. Before y’know it they’ll be all over the bloody place.’
‘What will, Albert?’ Bill asked patiently.
‘Ghosts, what else d’yer think I’m talking about?’
Oh, dear. Albert was going off the rails again, Bill decided.
‘You sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s warmer. We can chat there,’ Bill asked.
‘Inside? Then I wouldn’t be homeless would I? No thanks. The police station is probably full of ‘em too. I’ll take my chances out here if it’s all the same to you. But I ain’t sweeping no more, so let’s get that straight.’
‘You’re not sweeping any more. Okay, I understand. But Albert, you’re not really homeless,’ Bill reminded him.
‘Ha! You’re talking about the converted coal shed at the back of this place, right??’
The converted coal shed, as Albert put it, had been paid for and furnished by his family. It was as comfortable as anyone could wish.
‘So what’s all this about ghosts?’
‘Seen ’em. Two of ‘em. Up in Cherry Blossom Close, I did. They didn’t see me though, thank gawd.’
‘You saw two ghosts in Cherry Blossom Close?’ Bill asked cautiously.
‘Yes. I’d just done sweeping Crab Apple Lane and was walking to the Close and there they was! Bold as y’like, strolling up the road. What’s the matter with you, Bill Williams? You going deaf or turning senile or what?’ Albert asked. He was getting annoyed.
‘All right, Al
bert. Steady on. My hearing’s fine,’ said Bill , trying to keep things calm. ‘So who were these ghosts then? Did you know them?’
‘Right. Like I’m personal friends with spooks. I don’t think so, do you?’ Albert took a long, very noisy slurp of his tea.
Bill winced.
‘Then did you recognise them?’ Bill asked, wary of another tirade of sarcasm.
But instead of the abuse Bill expected, Albert took a quick swallow of tea, put down his mug then shuffled his bottom along the step until he was close enough to whisper in Bill’s ear.
Bill backed off a little but Albert grabbed the policeman’s lapel and pulled gently.
‘One of ‘em was dressed in a raincoat like in those old spy films. Like Humpy Bogey or whatever his name was. You know the one, right?’
Bill nodded.
‘Only it wasn’t him. It was that French fella. Coostow. The Pink thingy,’ said Albert, almost in a whisper.
It took Bill a couple of seconds; then the metaphorical light went on.
‘You mean Jacques Clouseau. The Pink Panther?’
‘Yeah, that’s the fella. Lived on a boat and did diving and all that stuff when he wasn’t being a policeman. Did you know he helped invent the aqualung? During the war it was. Well it was him. And he weren’t alone neither I’ll have you know.’
‘Oh?’ Bill ventured.
‘No he weren’t. And don’t give me that “poor-old-Albert’s-lost-his-marbles” look, Bill Williams. I know what I saw. Anyway, the other one was a cat. And a talking one at that.’
‘How do you know it was a talking cat, Albert?’ Bill regretted the stupid question the instant it was out of his mouth.
Albert glared at the policeman. ‘Just how the hell do you think I know it was a talking cat, for gawd’s sake?’
Bill didn’t flinch under the look but did have the sense to apologise.
‘Thank you, sergeant. Well, the point is this. The fella in the mac looked like Coostow, but he sounded like that young fella who moved into number one a short while back. That computer fella.’
Almost Dead In Suburbia Page 14